


The Mask I Wear to Tell the Truth

by 00QEros (Dassandre), springbok7



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Assault with Deadly Verbiage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, It Will Be Finished, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, transformations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/00QEros, https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: As an agent, Bond is stoic and brusque, but he has a secret few know.After a mission gone nearly horribly wrong, Bond returns to London to find that old Major Boothroyd has retired, and M has appointed a new, young, supercilious Quartermaster.   Though the new Q has worked for Six for some time, he’s not had an opportunity to interact directly with Agent 007, and the circumstances of their first meeting are rather disastrous, putting the two at odds with one another in a most potent and passionate way.But Bond is Bond, so when Alec, Eve, and Tanner attempt to intervene and defend the arrogant pup, he begins an investigation to determine what makes Q tick and whether or not he really is the overbearing, pompous arse James believes he is.





	1. And so it begins ...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts).



> This work is inspired by the fabulous art created by Springbok7 for the 2017-2018 00Q Reverse Big Bang. I am ever thankful to work with SB, but particularly with this art prompt. It's fabulous! We decided to go full tilt, though, and chose the full partnership, so we are co-authors on this one. Something I am so excited about!
> 
> We are dedicating this story to two individuals for whom we have the greatest respect as both writers and as truly kind and giving people: Boffin1710 and AsheTarasovich (natalieashe). We love you!!
> 
> Note that the art itself is linked below and will show up in the appropriate chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

Chapter One:  "And so It Begins ..."

 

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”  ~ Aristotle

 

["What Would It Take for You to Notice Me?"](https://springbok7.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/adult-q-cat-james.png)

 

* * *

 

Alec Trevelyan nodded his thanks to the publican who set two empty glasses and a full bottle of Glenmorangie in front of him.  He handed her the two fifty pound notes he’d pulled from his wallet and poured two fingers into each glass, watched as James downed the amber in three swallows and poured his friend a second before taking a sip from his own untouched glass.  

Alec grimaced at the taste.  The Glenmorangie, while certainly worth what he’d just paid for it, was still _whisky_ , but this outing was for James’ benefit, so Alec was willing to make a few sacrifices.  It was the least he could do all things considered: one of those being the number of times James had suffered through Alec’s frustration-fueled, vodka-guzzling pub jaunts when it’d been _his_ turn to limp home with his tail between his legs after an especially bolloxed mission.

Bad enough that the missions themselves were at times clusterfucks of epic proportions, but then Medical had to get involved.  To be poked and prodded -- lectured about “injury assessment” and “field readiness” -- on top of all of it.  That shite was enough to drive a sane person spare.  But for an agent still on a hair-trigger ... the feeling of being trapped -- attacked with no backup and no ex-filtration, expected to simply endure the fucking vampires -- was claustrophobic and did absolutely nothing to help calm the hyper-awareness that, while a necessity during a mission, was less than helpful once the op completed and the agent was expected to integrate back into ‘polite and normal’ society.

Honestly, Alec was more than a little astonished there weren’t more instances of violence in Medical, or Psych for that matter, given the twitchy nature of agents just off a mission.  It wasn’t so much that the bedside manner of the nurses and doctors was particularly horrid, but … well, ‘jaded’ was one word that sprang to mind.  Those poor sods saw all sorts, physical and mental injuries, and really, he got that they were just trying to do their jobs, but there was just _something_ about the place … the smell … the sounds … the sight of it, even.  

It grated.  

Even the junior agents -- who arguably had the least experience with the blood-suckers and shouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction -- were affected, and so they all avoided the place like it was Kalaupapa.  As did Senior Agents.  

And agents like James Bond?  

No. Truly.  Double-Os, in general, were worse.  At least none had punched staff in recent years, not since M greenlighted the specialised training for staff after that -- oh, so satisfying -- incident between Vely Thao, 0010, and McPherson from Psych.  “Zookeeping 101: Care and Feeding of Skittish Agents and Stroppy Double-Os” he’d heard the course called, only quasi-jokingly.

Alec sighed.  They weren’t wrong.  ‘Skittish’ and ‘stroppy’ were dead on descriptions for a certain long-time friend of his.  James was always miserable company straight off a mission and made no bones about wanting to just fuck off home, but Alec was his best mate, and he hoped that perhaps this time -- _especially_ this time -- some companionable fellowship would at least take the edge off the frenetic energy that seemed to shiver through the man.  

Damn near anything had to be better than the usual and self-imposed solitary confinement at that nick James used for a flat.  Alec sighed again as he eyed his friend covertly.  He’d always been amazed James didn’t wreck the place when he holed up.   _He_ would be climbing the walls in seconds flat.  

All that silence.  Alec shuddered.

He snagged the empty glass from James’ hand and poured another dram.  They were Double-Os:  spirits cured many an ill.  He pushed the fresh drink across the bar top, hopeful it would work its magic, and quickly.

~~~ OOQ ~~~

“The fuck you drag me here for anyway?” James surveyed the crowded pub beyond their spot at the back corner of the square-shaped bar as he took back the glass Alec has just refilled.  As far as he could tell, everyone present was from Six.  Located just across Vauxhall Bridge, The Stroppy Cockerel was the local for many who worked at Babylon, but someone had clearly hired out the entire place for some sort of celebration:  birthday, stag do, hen night … he couldn’t have cared less.  He didn’t want to be here regardless.

James knew he was in too piss poor of a mood for this to be a good idea.  He should be on his way back to his flat.  Nurse his wounds and his whisky in private.  Alec, the sodding dobbin, had strong-armed him out of the building as soon as James had finished up his debriefing with M.  

He’d landed back on British soil just three hours prior to that meeting after his weeks-long mission to stop an eco-terrorist went pear-shaped due to a dearth of up-to-date intel -- again.  He’d regained consciousness earlier this morning in a partially drained irrigation ditch outside Dunkirk with his third concussion in six months; how he’d managed to return to his lodgings, clean himself up a little, don the last undamaged suit he had left in his suitcase, and make it on to an aeroplane without the crew refusing him at the gangway … well, he still had no idea.  They were French.  Probably just disregarded the banged up and bloodied limping man as one more British businessman who’d got into a row after imbibing more than he should on a wild holiday.  Whatever the reason, James was grateful to be back in London.

He had staggered into Medical and remained just long enough for them to wrap his knee -- again -- and affix butterfly plasters to the bullet grazes on his scalp and right bicep, which they would have sutured had he the energy or patience to wait for them to do it.  It’d all heal soon enough.  But as he leant against the bar, slowly stiffening up as the painkillers wore off, James came to the conclusion that the inside of his left elbow and his right earlobe were quite possibly the only parts of his body that didn’t hurt.

He swallowed the honeyed gold that had -- so far -- in no way sweetened his mood and poured himself a fourth, banking on the effects of quantity in addition to quality.   His irritation ratcheted up as an answer to his question did not appear to be forthcoming.  “Alec?” James demanded.

Trevelyan turned from the crowd and leant a hip against the bar to face James instead.  “Can you honestly tell me after that shite show in France that you _don’t_ need a night out?”

“It’s not a matter of what _you_ think I do or do not need, Alec.  What _I_ _want_ is to go home.  I’ve told you that already.”

“One hour.  Stay that long.”  He nudged the whisky bottle on the bar top with a knuckle.  “Drink what you want, and after I’ll drive you back to that soul-sucking flat you call home.  I’ll even toss in take-away from Mango Kitchen.”  

Fine.

Fuck his life.  

James was too damn tired and too damn physically sore -- and too damn prickly from that exhaustion and pain -- for a night out, but Alec had a way of not taking no for an answer at the worst possible times.  A dog with a fucking bone, he was.  Over the years, James had learnt that it was sometimes less of a headache to not fight him.  Okay.  He’d play nicely for an _hour_.  

_I can manage that_ , he thought.  The Glenmorangie and the promise of lamb vindaloo might even be acceptable compensation if Alec took him home straight after to lick his wounds.  

And if everything went to shite -- it was that kind of week -- Alec had no one to blame but himself.

“I can’t promise to be good company.”

“Are you _ever_ good company?”

James chuckled in spite of himself.  “You’re a right bastard.”

“Yeah, but ya love me for it.” Alec’s shite-eating grin lit up their corner of the bar as well as a bit of the darkness in James’ heart.  No matter how infuriating Alec could be, he understood James in a way that few others did, and that connection meant James didn’t feel quite so alone in the world.  

Okay, maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“So what’s this, then?”  James gestured with his glass at the increasingly large gathering of Sixers.  

Tossing back the rest of his own whisky, Alec turned and leant his forearms against the ancient, well-polished bar top.  “The Major’s retirement party.”

James was taken aback.  “Retirement?   _Boothroyd_?!”  

He’d heard not even a hint of scuttlebutt about this.  His eyes quickly scanned the pub, and found the soon-to-be-ex department chief standing with Bill Tanner, Eve Moneypenny, and some floppy-haired, bespeckled youth he didn’t recognise but was probably one of Tanner’s interns -- _should be cramming for A-levels instead of loitering in a pub, James didn’t change topic by voicing his flippant thought_ \-- near a large table filled with nibbles and festooned with balloons and flowers.   “Good lord, why?”  

To say that this was the end of an era was a gross understatement, and -- not entirely unexpectedly -- James found himself unsettled at the notion.  

“Inthapatha.” Alec’s tone conveyed a wealth of meaning in that one word.  

James stiffened.  Elias Inthapatha, 002, had been lost in Tbilisi to Abkhazian separatists six weeks ago; his mutilated body had been found partially submerged beneath the Queen Tamar Bridge five days after he went missing.  He was the fourth agent, the second Double-O, lost in the field in the last eleven months.  Part of what had set James so on edge after Dunkirk was how close he had come to be the fifth.  Unlike Inthapatha, however, James’ peculiar talent had saved him, but only just.

“Was he forced out?”  The anger that James had been battling to rein in surged anew at _that_ thought.  

The curmudgeonly inventor had been as integral a part of James’ years at Six as M herself.  While not every device had been an unparalleled success -- the rocket launcher leg cast and the crocodile submarine were the first to come to mind -- James had nevertheless lost track of the number of times, especially in recent years, one of Boothroyd’s inventions had made the difference between James coming home seated in the first-class cabin of a plane and coming home in its cargo hold, in a box.  

“Christ!  No!  Fucking hell, James, the man _is_ 77!”  Though the reminder of the Major’s years pulled him up short, the vehemence of Alec’s reaction settled something deep within James that he resolutely refused to consider or even acknowledge the existence of:  he wasn’t used to thinking in terms of age or futures, for other people or for himself.

“No one’s forcing ‘im to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Between you and me, I think he’s just tired.  Far too tired.”  Alec’s tone softened and his gaze dropped to the mouthful of liquid that remained in the glass he’d started rotating between his fingers.

“You were already on your way to France, so you wouldn’t have heard about his decision, but Boothroyd submitted his paperwork the day after they found Elias.  Effective immediately.”  Alec’s rough exhalation might not have been audible over the hum of sound in the pub, but James could clearly see his shoulders lift and droop as the breath left him.

Alec wasn't finished though.

“According to Eve, the boss lady was quite displeased when he told her he was done.  Tried to talk ‘im out of it.  Pretty sure threats were involved -- it’s _M_ , after all -- but Boothroyd wouldn’t budge.  Said he’d no interest anymore in the fight to drag Six the rest of the way into the 21st century when he didn’t want to drag himself out of bed most mornings.  Something, too, about needing the energy and youth of his grandkids.”  

James wasn’t sure how he felt about that revelation. Not that he’d ever thought of the Major, in spite of his brilliance, as anything but human like the rest of them, but the idea of the man struggling to face each day was an … _uncomfortable_ thought and more than James wanted to consider.  Boothroyd just _was_.  There at Six.

Always.

Alec finished his drink and signalled the barkeep for something more to his taste.  He glanced at James beside him and then back across the pub at the Major.  

“Eve thinks he blames himself for Elias and the other lost agents -- don’t want to think ‘bout his reaction if you’d not pulled yourself out of that ditch this morning -- feels that stepping aside for younger blood and newer ideas will increase our life expectancy in the field.”  

While Alec spoke, his words inaudible to any but his long-time friend, James turned to reach over the top of the bar and grab a clean glass.

“Well, I suppose in comparison to Boothroyd, R’s young .. _ish_.” He really had no idea of R’s age, just that she appeared much older than he.  “She certainly seems clever enough.”  James poured a measure of whisky into the new glass as well as into his own.

“But I don’t envy her the shoes she’ll have to fill.”    

With filled glasses in hand, James limped across the pub to offer his old friend a celebratory drink before Alec could tell him that R hadn’t been the one promoted to Quartermaster.  

 

 

 

 


	2. Grasping a Hot Coal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Though they stood in a pub crowded with their colleagues, Bond and the Quartermaster were so focussed on their instant, acute antipathy for one another that they might as well have been the only ones in the room."
> 
>  
> 
> In which James Bond meets his new Quartermaster and things go ... poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our apologies for it taking longer than planned to get this chapter two you. Each of us has been beset by crazy family health issues in addition to an already hectic work schedule. We hope that the drama in this chapter makes up a bit for the delay. James and Q really do not get on well with one another.

##  Chapter Two:  Grasping a Hot Coal

“Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are  ~~ subtle and  ~~ quick to anger.” 

―  **J.R.R. Tolkien** ,  **The Fellowship of the Ring**

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So you didn’t like it then?”  Tanner asked, hope sparking in his heart though he kept his tone carefully neutral.  He popped a miniature sausage roll into his mouth and reached for one of the black pudding rosti.  Each action casual, seemingly unconcerned. Moneypenny had been ribbing him for weeks already.  No reason to give her further opportunity to do so, but this bit of intel could very well be the piece the Chief of Staff had been desperate for.  

Three months ago, his wife had informed Bill that they’d be joining her parents at the National Gallery to see the upcoming exhibit.  He hadn’t been thrilled at the prospect of looking at art -- or looking at his in-laws look at art -- but at the time his team had barely stood a chance at getting into the playoffs let alone the finals.  Now?  What a difference a few weeks could make, and the prospect of missing it -- C’mon!  _ This _ Saturday of  _ all _ the days ... 

But, if he could tell Elise that the exhibit wasn’t as good as she’d been lead to believe, then he might get a chance to meet up with the lads to watch --

“No.  Quite the contrary!  It was brilliant!”

The rosti slipped from his fingers back to the platter.  Tanner did not make a fist.  He did  _ not _ . He didn’t look at Moneypenny either. 

“But … but you said that you didn’t like the movement --”  That hopeful spark was suddenly desperate, struggling for something -- anything! -- to breathe life into it, and it quickly withered and died in the face of his companion’s energetic interruption.

“No, you misunderstood, Bill. It’s van Eyck I’ve never much cared for.  The Pre-Raphaelites, however, well, I’ve always been a fan.  But to see  _ The Arnolfini Portrait _ paired with the work of those it inspired 400 years  _ after _ it was painted.”  The passion that lit his countenance made the man dashing Tanner’s hopes appear even younger than he was, and was a delightful juxtaposition to the pronouncement he was in the midst of making.

Or rather, delightful to anyone who was not Bill Tanner.

“It’s, well ... it’s caused me to reevaluate my -- I now see -- under-appreciation of that painting and to reconsider everything Rosetti, Hunt, Stillman, and the rest created in light of that.”  

Eve sipped her bramble and hid her smile behind the cocktail glass as she watched Bill’s face fall right along with his appetizer.  Poor sod had been looking for a way out of that exhibit for weeks now, and with the boffin’s enthusiastic recommendation, he was well and truly stuck.  She nudged Tanner’s shoulder with her own before leaning a hip against the food table.  “Time to man up and admit defeat, Billy.  You’ve been married to Elise long enough to know that your fate was sealed the minute she said, ‘Let’s go to The National Gallery, luv.’”   

“Moneypenny’s right, my dear boy.  Your rugby lads will be just fine without you, the state of your  _ marriage _ without this pilgrimage to The Gallery will be something a bit less certain, I fear,” Boothroyd said, clapping Tanner on the shoulder hard enough that Bill practically spilt his drink.   

The Major then pointed a finger at the young aesthetic across from him.  “As for you, young man, the best advice I can give is to keep setting aside time for things you enjoy.  Things that have  _ nothing _ to do with the office or the labs.  Or the electronics and software I  _ know _ you like to tinker with on your days off.”  

The resultant self-deprecating half shrug did not go unnoticed by the elderly ex-branch head.  “You’re as passionate about your work as any I’ve seen.  An artist in your own right as far as all that is concerned, but don’t make  _ work _ your life.”

“Yes, sir.  I was disappointed that I had to give up my volunteer work at The Gallery last year when it became impossible to know from week to week what my diary would be like, but --”

“He’s charged me with ensuring that he experiences art, at minimum, once a fortnight, and I intend to do just that, even if I have to paint with watercolours at his desk whilst he’s handing out kits to the Double-Os,” Moneypenny said seriously though the glint in her eye was as mischievous as ever.

The boffin laughed around a mouthful of his gin and tonic, skillfully managing to avoid choking on it or spitting it everywhere.  “Oils or acrylics, Eve.  I beg you,” he said, hand flapping at her to emphasise his plea.  “Much easier to work with for the novice painter.”

His animated features quieted as he seemed to consider the possibilities for himself and Moneypenny.  “A shame pastels or charcoals are out, they’re the easiest of the lot to get a feel for composition and the like, but the dust!  Granted, I could set up a freestanding cleanroom to contain the lot, but lighting’s already shite down there...”

He shook his head pensively as his voice trailed off.

“Well, at least ventilation’s decent, but in any event enclosed spaces and oils aren’t optimal.  Perhaps acrylics would indeed be the best medium to start with.  Either way, I could set you up with your own easel in the corner of my office next to the futon,” he said, gesturing expansively as he mentally mapped the artist’s space. “I can see it now, just a bit of -- ”

His hand and arm connected with something quite solid behind him that had not been there moments before and the collision sent his glass and its contents flying.  He froze for a moment in shock, the sharp splintering of and splashing from multiple glasses breaking against the hardwood beneath his feet echoed around him -- oh, bugger! -- followed by an angry explosion of sound.  

“What the everlasting  _ fuck _ !”

The boffin spun, arms pinwheeling for balance, chestnut Cheaney Oxfords crunching the shards underfoot, and found himself face to face with an alcohol-soaked Double-O.   

“Oh shite!  I am  _ so _ sorry!” he said.  He shook his hand free of the remnants of his G&T, grabbed from the stack of paper serviettes at the edge of the table, and blotted the soaked wool of James Bond’s -- of course it was  _ James bloody Bond! _ \-- bespoke suit jacket and white cotton button-down, but before he could so much as flip the stack and begin a second pass, his wrist was shackled in an unyielding -- though not painful -- grip.  The serviettes were prised from his fingers and tossed to the floor amidst the alcohol and glass.  His eyes followed the sodden mass to the glittering, glistening wood before darting to his captured wrist and then to the icy gaze of the Double-O himself.  

He felt still more words of apology crowding up behind his lips like Tube riders desperate for a spot on the last carriage of a Monday morning.  After all these years, this was certainly  _ not _ how he expected his first, semi-official introduction to 007 would go, but the sheepish words died a quick death upon the utterance of agent’s own.

“Tanner.  Do us all a favour and at least attempt a firmer leash on your interns, assuming you dare to even call  _ this _ one that.” the man said, dropping the wrist he held as though it were something foul he’d touched on accident.  He examined his fingers with a slight frown, almost as if he’d expected some noxious substance to have been left behind from their brief contact, before wiping away the alcohol splashed on his face.  

The boffin’s mouth opened and then closed again, at least twice, as he stared at the agent first in shock and then with mounting anger.  

He’d expected stroppy, or suave, or a bit of both, but the sheer rudeness of the words and the snideness of the tone…  it was like nails on a blackboard after the day he’d had.  Hell, after the month!  Simpson’d managed to corner him twice that morning to whinge for thirty minutes at a go about mundane technicalities.  If R hadn’t been able to distract the woman when she had, he’d have told Valeria Simpson  _ exactly _ what he thought of her  _ and _ her complaints, neither of which would have been helpful for branch morale or bloody ‘team building’.  

Simpson was only one of the issues he’d had to deal with on a daily basis.  The ongoing passive aggressive attempts at manipulation from Carstairs were a consistent thorn in his side.  Martin was a decent enough chap, but once he got his feathers ruffled about something, he was like a mynah bird hopping around, honey-coated vitriol dripping from his lips.  And were his feathers ever ruffled.  The idea that things changed with the times seemed utterly foreign to the man who seemed perpetually trapped in 1992.  Antiquated thinking and support were not going to keep Six and her agents functional and in the field, Carstairs, Simpson, and those like them notwithstanding.  There were lives on the line!

Thankfully, for Six, both were slated to retire by the end of the year.  Unfortunately, for his sanity, the same could not be said for the bespoke-clad, furious Double-O in front of him.

~~~ OOQ ~~~

Though they were mostly of a height, James had an easy two stone on the whelp who had stiffened noticeably and was glaring at him from behind his thick-rimmed spectacles.   “Better still,” James said cooly, expanding on his previous sentence once his face was dry, meeting and holding that glowering gaze, “discourage them from going out in public at all.  At least until you’ve housebroken them properly.”  

Before the boy had a chance to do more than open his mouth, James reached past him to grab more serviettes and started dabbing at his clothing himself.  Alec really should have let him go home.  This was intolerable.   

“They  _ don’t _ actually,” the boy snapped, unexpectedly.  

Traditional RP.  Public school prat.  Just lovely.

“They don’t  _ what _ ?”  James demanded as he pressed the absorbent mass against the fabric, hoping to wick more of the alcohol from the wool.  The white linen of his shirt was already gleaming gold, and he knew the light grey of the slacks would not fare much better.  By the time he got home and hunted out the bicarbonate of soda, the wretched stain would have set.  Fuck.  He’d hoped at least  _ one _ suit would have survived that bloody mission.

“They don’t refer to me as an  _ intern _ .”  His tone was cold enough to have frozen the Thames at Lammas.

“ _ Bòzhe mòi _ ,  here we go …” James heard Alec whisper under his breath behind him.  His friend had apparently joined the small group at the food table and was standing so closely that James could feel the heat of Alec’s body against his back.  

He trusted Alec, so having him right  _ there _ wasn’t normally an issue, even when James was trying not to crawl out of his skin during his post-mission period of hyper-awareness.  In fact, more than once over the years, Alec had helped ease James back into himself by simply resting a heavy, warm hand between James’ shoulder blades.  His muscles would bunch reflexively beneath that pressure before slowly and methodically relaxing under the physical weight that grounded James more than words could ever manage.  

This time, however, Alec’s proximity served as a tangible reminder of  _ why _ James was dealing with ruined bespoke in the first place and only exacerbated his aggravation tenfold.  His skin felt overheated and his blood thundered in his ears.  He was tired.  He was frustrated.  He had wanted nothing more than to go home, but now he had to contend with  _ this _ .

As if sensing impending detonation, the others at the table took a couple steps backward, out of what they probably perceived as the blast radius.  James had seen that look on Boothroyd’s face before.  He got it whenever he knew a ‘controlled explosion’ in his lab was about to become anything but.  

“And what  _ do _ they refer to you as?  Hmmm?  Junior?”  His tone could not be labeled anything but flippant.

The boy straightened to his full height -- about an inch taller than he, James noted absently --  but the way he was looking down his nose at James had absolutely nothing to do with their respective statures.  A small, childish part of James laughed at the futile attempt at physical dominance: he was no weaning puppy to be set in his place in the pack order, certainly not by an arrogant little snot-nosed adolescent.

“‘Boss’ or ‘sir’ are popping up with increasing frequency,” the pup barked, “but these days I’m most often referred to as  _ ‘Quartermaster’ _ .”

“Quartermaster?  _ You _ ?”  Double-O or not, the astonishment in his voice was beyond James’ ability to control.  He could not have been more shocked if M had offered to tuck him in and read him  _ A Bear Called Paddington _ .

The surrounding quartet -- including Alec this time -- slid back another unobtrusive step or two, and Tanner mouthed a silent ‘Oh, boy!’  The verbal sparring between the two combatants continued with no indication that either had even noticed the retreat.

James’ exhaustion and general stroppiness had quite dismantled the usually suave and politic verbal filter that allowed James to be such a successful field agent.  It was wrong.  He  _ knew _ it was wrong even as he said it, there had even been a brief moment when he could have turned and walked away, but the words tumbled out unbidden.

“Tanner, have we become so desperate for staff that we’re now hiring  _ children _ ?”

The incredulous agent heard Moneypenny’s discreet cough but did not turn his attention from the stripling in front of him.

“James, he’s not --”

“Miss Moneypenny, thank you, but it’s quite unnecessary.  I am, unfortunately, quite used to this particular misperception and prejudice.”  The boy cut her off with a slight smile that James could only call affectionately familiar, and very much  _ not _ what an intern would give to a senior member of the Executive Staff.  His words for the woman also held a degree of warmth that was notably absent when the youth picked up the thread of his conversation with James.  The tension in the child’s frame returned, and his smile became tight and bitter, his words prim and icy.

“Commander Bond, though older than I, you are a Double-O, and that makes you _my_ agent and _my_ responsibility.”  

“ _ Your _ agent?  Hardly.  I answer to M.  No one else.  Certainly not to some wet behind the ears teenager with delusions of grandeur who’s probably never held a leadership position that required more than stitching a badge onto a Wolf Cub uniform.  Have some respect for your elders, boy.  Why don’t you try answering to the adults for a few years before you start trying to order them around.”

James’ frosty tone was a sharp contrast to the heat that burned through him.

“You may call me Q, actually.”

James snorted and resolved to do no such thing, but the prat wasn’t finished speaking.  

”You are accountable to me, Commander, not the other way around.”

The fire in his veins seemed -- impossibly -- to grow even hotter until James half expected that alcohol to evaporate straight out of the ruined cloth constricting his chest and arms.

“How much  _ did _ you manage to drink before you dumped it all on me?  Is it even  _ legal _ for you to be in here?  No matter, might want to think about cutting back.  It’s going to your head.”

Though they stood in a pub crowded with their colleagues, Bond and the Quartermaster were so focussed on their instant, acute antipathy for one another that they might as well have been the only ones in the room.  

“As Quartermaster, I’ve as much authority over you as Dr. Y’da in Medical or McPherson in Psychological Services.  Yes, you answer to M, but the three of us each have the clearance, and I dare say the  _ duty, _ to bench you if we deem it necessary, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that your most recent mission has had --”

“You know  _ nothing _ about what happened on that mission,”  James growled.  His hand itched and flexed around the forgotten bundle of sodden paper he held.  He wanted to wipe the superior expression off the face in front of him.  Almost as much as he wanted to just go  _ home _ .

“I know far more than you realise, Commander, and as your handler on all future missions, I will know even more.”

“ _ Handler _ ?!”  James’ reaction to that word was so visceral, so intense that it drove him forward a step, crunching the forgotten shards underfoot.  Alec gripped his shoulder in warning, but James stayed his own progress -- he’d already been less than a metre from the fledgling lunatic who was holding his ground and not retreating like a sensible person would.  

“I am  _ not _ some attack dog you can just whistle to heel!” he hissed, shaking off Alec’s hand.

“Clearly, if  _ Dunkirk _ is anything to go by.”  

Q’s cocked eyebrow became the physical companion to the criticism and judgement that infused his words, and his tone felt like caustic acid across James’ already jangling nerve endings, evoking the same humiliation from all those years ago when he’d been summoned by the headmaster to the front of the assembly to be lectured for his misdeeds.  He’d felt trapped, pinned under a spotlight, and had wanted nothing more than to lash out, retaliate, or flee to whatever safety he could find.  Reactions he’d despised at the time and ones that were riding all too close to the surface now.  James’ fingers flexed again.  No.  Dunkirk hadn’t gone well, but he’d be damned if he was going to be held accountable for that to  _ this _ sodding bastard.    

“You ditched your earwig and radio two days into an extended mission,” the man said, continuing his didactic monologue, “thereby missing key intelligence updates that would have kept things from going so spectacularly to shite and you from nearly getting yourself killed -- again.  How you survived I’ll never… You and the rest of the Double-Os, you behave like a pack of teenagers yourselves, like you’re invincible.  Until you aren’t.”

Gormless lil blighter!  It had hardly been Bond’s fault he’d lost the ‘wig.  He’d been trying for the better part of a decade to figure out how to keep the fucking things from-- 

“It’s time, and then some, for the lot of you to learn that whilst the mission isn’t expendable,  _ neither _ is the agent.”  The upstart’s haughty chin lifted, and his arms folded across his chest, completely forgetting the still-damp gin-soaked knit of his sleeve.  His voice shifted slightly, the judgment hardening into a more implacable tone.  It set Bond’s teeth so on edge he barely heard the next few words.

“I’m sick to the back teeth of losing agents and I’ll be  _ damned _ if we lose another.  Not on my watch and certainly not to something as imbecilic as agent  _ pigheadedness _ !  There  _ will _ be changes, and you ‘old dogs’  _ will _ learn ‘new tricks’, even if I have to drag every last one of you by the collar through the training myself.”

Wait.   _Old_ _dogs_?! 

The fuck?!  James couldn’t believe his ears.  The nerve.  The utter gall!  Who did he think he was talking to?!  

His skin stung with the need to strike back at the verbal attack, but before he could do more than twitch a hand, the wretched boy continued his onslaught, neither of them aware of the unnatural quiet deepening around them.  

“At least a well-trained dog does what it’s told without the threat of a thrashing.   _ And _ at least that dog would have the sense to respect the one holding his leash and not try to bite!  You? You can’t even follow instructions to save your own life!  As for respect, do you even know the meaning of the word?  Clearly, M must have a high tolerance to put up with you if this is how you behave with  _ her _ !”

The annoyance and indignation he had been riding sparked to fury in his blood at the mere suggestion that James had anything but the utmost regard for M.  He may think her a right bitch and champ at the restrictions she often placed on him and the other Double-Os, but respect was another issue altogether. 

“Respect is earned, not dolled out like jelly babies!” James snarled.  “ _ She _ earned it before you were even born!  What have  _ you _ done to deserve it?  You can’t just waltz in here, wave around a Uni degree you pulled off the internet, and act like you own the place.”  

“Your intel is out of date, Commander.  I’ve been with Six for seven years.”

Where, hiding in the bowels of HQ?  How else could the knob have escaped James’ notice all these years?

“Doing what?  Tech support?  We’re all quite capable of turning our computers off and on again without your particular expertise, but if you need to feel useful, why don’t you toddle on back to Six and help the analysts unjam their copier.”

Another hit below the belt, but James was long past the point of caring.  He was furious with himself for ‘losing his cool’ as the Americans might say, and yet he wanted to continue to slash and tear and hurt his adversary as his adversary was hurting  _ him _ .  

“Keep tugging on that leash, agent, and you’ll  _ not _ like the consequences.”  Q’s fists were now planted on his hips as if they grew there.

James felt that leash, that proverbial noose, tightening around his neck, trapping him and triggering instincts he fought tooth and nail.

“And you’ll do what?  Your ‘duty’?  You wouldn’t dare!  I’d snap you like a twig, you pompous little tosser.”

James clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw muscles ached.  There was so much more he wanted to say but more than anything he just wanted to get away.  Fight warred with flight within, and while ‘flight’ was gaining ground with every passing second due to his exhaustion and his injuries -- he needed away from  _ people, now _ ! Tend all his wounds in private -- his pride would not allow that retreat.  Not to this prick.  He was a bloody Double-O for God’s sake. 

“Commander Bond, my earlier warning stands.  I can and  _ will _ place you on mandatory leave if I deem it necessary.  A month should suffice.  You’ve clearly not got your head on straight.  Go home.  Sleep off whatever the hell  _ this _ is,” the Quartermaster gestured vaguely at Bond’s person, “before I’m compelled to do something equally as unprofessional as your conduct here tonight.  Something with repercussions that neither of us will be happy to attend to!”

With that parting riposte, James’ half-formed wish was granted: Q swung away from Bond before he could snap off yet another retort and bid a quick goodnight to the rest of the closely assembled group.  “I’ve got that meeting with M in 30 minutes,” he reminded a gobsmacked Tanner, “and 003 will be coming online at 0025.  Geoffrey, my best.”  He pushed his spectacles back up his nose with one hand and shook Boothroyd’s firmly with the other.  “I’ll see you for lunch Thursday next.”  

Q grabbed a drab anorak from the back of a nearby chair, shoved it under his arm, and stalked off across the pub.  The sea of semi-silent people between Q and the entrance parted before him but did not flow back in his wake as those closest to the food table were left stunned by the spectacular row they had just witnessed between Six’s new Quartermaster and its best Double-O, whilst the rest wondered what was going on.  

Their bewilderment was short lived, however, for as soon as the pub door slammed behind him -- hydraulic hinge be damned, this was the Quartermaster, after all -- the crowd was loosed from the amber that had caught them and immediately fell to rampant gossip as if they had not just witnessed everything for themselves.

Though the hum of conversation picked up around him, James stood rooted to the floor, oblivious to it all, staring instead at the closed door, nostrils flaring -- almost panting for breath -- with the impotent fury that skittered under his skin along with a tangle of other emotions the  _ Quartermaster _ had pulled forth.

Tanner pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to ward off the headache -- literal and metaphorical -- that was springing to life.  “Thank you,” he said to Eve when she pressed a pair of paracetamol tablets into his other hand.  He swallowed them with the remaining half pint of his cider.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Boothroyd observed before reaching for one of the fairy cakes on the table.  

“I suppose we should be thankful that they kept it relatively quiet.  Only  _ half _ the pub heard all that first-hand.  God, M’s going to have kittens,” Eve sighed, plucking the fairy cake from the Major’s hand and devouring the chocolate creme confection in two bites.  She licked away the bit of fudge icing that stuck to the corner of her lip knowing that she’d need at least four more cakes before even thinking about damage control.

Alec yanked James around to face him, his other hand catching the fist of James’ instinctive swing.  “Fucking hell, James!  Can’t promise to be good company?  Fine!  But did you have to be  _ that _ much of a fucking wanker!  Q knocked into you  _ accidentally _ !”  Alec pulled him in close and hissed in his ear.  “Did y’ turn bloody feral out on that mission?  You blew that entirely out of proportion.”

James jerked free from Alec’s hold, focusing his fury on a target still in range.

“ _ You’re _ defending that arrogant pissant, too?  What, Eve wasn’t enough?  Fine friend you are.  I warned you not to make me come here, Alec.  Did you listen?  No!  You dragged me to this god-forsaken pub instead of taking me home like I asked you to do.   _ Four times _ !”  James jabbed a finger into Alec’s chest.  “This is on  _ your _ head, mate!”

James flung the alcohol-soaked bundle of paper to the floor next to its predecessor and swung away from the knot of concerned faces, adrenaline and anger deadening the pain of his many injuries.  That he then stormed down the same channel Q had just cleared was lost on him, as was the fact that Alec was supposed to drive him back to his flat.  

He had to get out.  The walls were too close, and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.  Too many bodies.  He needed space.  And quiet.  Familiar surroundings.  Someplace to let his guard down and  _ rest _ .  Before he did something irrevocable.  

Like kill his best friend.

James sighed.  Alec meant well, but he was a social creature; James was not.  They’d known each other for years, but that was one thing Alec had never understood about him, his need for solitude.   Alec thrived on camaraderie: the more people he was around, the more they centered and helped him release the pent-up residual energy of a mission.  James?  Not so much.  After a mission, he just wanted to go home.  

Alone in his flat, James could drink as much as he liked and avoid the incessant blathering of social gatherings that would only raise the fever in his blood.  He could put on  _ Carmina Burana  _ or maybe  _ Flight of the Condor _ , curl up on the sofa, and just be.  

Instead of the raucous noise and constant motion of the pub, he craved the stillness and safety of his flat, needed the calm to flow over him and hopefully wash away some of the jangling, jittering pile of razor blades that had been dancing along his nerves all day, a feeling had only been exacerbated by that encounter with the new Quartermaster.  The mission had ended barely 18 hours ago, but his blood still sang with it!  He’d known he wasn’t fit for uncivilised company, let alone a crowded pub filled with friends and colleagues.  

By the time he came back to himself, James was nearly to the next corner, the pub far behind, standing at the mouth of a poorly lit, narrow alley.  He glanced around. The road was surprisingly deserted for the time of night.

Good.

James stepped into the narrow lane and disappeared into the inky darkness.

Moments later a scruffy, ginger tomcat made his way up the rickety fire escape at the end of the alley and limped carefully across the slate of the rooftops above London, favouring one front paw as he vanished into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Q's Shoes:  [Chestnut Cheaney Oxfords](https://www.cheaney.co.uk/mens-c48/classic-c64/cheaney-brackley-oxford-in-burnished-chestnut-calf-fox-suede-p556)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope that you enjoyed this chapter. Several more are already written, it's just a matter of finding time to edit them. Don't forget that comments are love, and given the craziness of our lives lately, we could each do with a little bit of extra love. Clearly, I am not above soliciting it, either.
> 
> Let us know what you thought!
> 
> Cheers!


	3. In the Luxury of Self-Reproach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q was not a raging, petty, vengeful man, but that’s what had come out in the face of Bond’s accusations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Again, as happens to so many of us, real life came crashing down to prevent a timely update, but we both hope that this chapter's offering is an enjoyable one for you. We are truly having a great time writing this story.

## Chapter Three:  In the Luxury of Self-Reproach

**“Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.”**

**―** **Ambrose Bierce**

* * *

 

 

Like powering a rocket speeding toward the heavens to achieve orbit, Q’s anger and indignation fueled his pace back to the River House.  Focussed on the colossal cluster fuck he had just left behind at the pub, Q was insensible to those with whom he shared the pavement.

“Sodding Double-Os!  A degree off the Internet?   _Fuck_ you, Bond!  God-damned bloody _PhDs_ !  Plural!  Arrogant ponce!  Got them the old-fashioned way, too.  Not that _he’d_ know the difference.  Bloody Neanderthal. Amazing he even walks upright.  Bastard! Give him a fucking _club_ for his kit next time, see how he fucking likes that!  Cretin!”

Some of the crowd through which he stormed stared without making it _seem_ like they were staring at the man muttering and swearing under his breath like a nutter.  They were Londoners, after all.

“Fucking _intern_ ?!  Two years running mission support in Prague and Shanghai.  Five years building the bloody tech _he_ destroys in the God-damned field, and _I’m_ a fucking _intern_ !   _Definitely_ getting a sodding club next time!  Let’s see him bring _that_ back in one piece!  Gormless _shite_!”

Other pedestrians, meanwhile, scrambled to get out of his way, for though he looked as if the slightest nudge would send his lanky form over the side of Vauxhall Bridge and into the Thames, Q had built up such momentum that anything in his path was at risk of the same.  

“Bloody teenager?!  Thirty-one years old, fuck you very much.  And what of it, anyway? Age is no guarantee of efficiency, adaptability, or _survivability_ .  The extra decade you’re sporting didn’t do you much good in France, Double-O Seven, did it?  Luck! Blind fucking luck! _That’s_ the only reason the manky old muppet’s still alive after Dunkirk.”  

Q’s pace approached escape velocity as he replayed everything that had been said, still muttering deprecatively under his breath:

 

_Housebroken them properly_

_Desperate for staff that we’re now hiring_ children

 _The Quartermaster?_ You?!

My _responsibility and_ my _agent_

_It’s going to your head_

_The duty to bench you_

_I am not some attack dog_

_If Dunkirk is anything to go by_

_You ‘old dogs’_ will _learn ‘new tricks_

_The threat of a thrashing_

_Respect is earned_

_Respect is earned_

_Respect is earned_

_What have_ you _done to deserve it?_

 

Q came to such an abrupt halt that he stumbled over his own feet and nearly knocked down the woman he’d been about to pass up on the pavement.  He pushed his way past another pair of pedestrians, fumbling his way to the side of the bridge.

Bugger!

What _had_ he done to earn that respect?

Absolutely _nothing_.

His ire cooled like a freshly machined titanium cog plunged into a bucket of cutting fluid.  The narrative of the last half hour -- his unpardonable words and actions -- spun through his mind uncontrolled. He grabbed the bridge railing with his hands, knuckles quickly growing pale with the force of his grip.  

Oh, God!

 _Idiot_!

A sudden wave of self-recrimination-fueled nausea hit him, and Q dropped his head to rest against his forearms.  It took several minutes of deep, measured breathing -- during which time he waved off the assistance of two tourists from California and a lad from Brighton if he went by their accents -- but the churning finally subsided.  He propped his head up on the palm of his hand and looked out over the dark water toward Westminster, the Elizabeth Tower glowing grandly in the night.

_Q, you are a fucking prat._

While he didn’t regret, and wouldn’t retract, the _content_ of what he had said -- well, the bulk of it, at any rate -- the _way_ he had said it …

What he had done back there … that was _not_ who he was!  

Where had that, that ... petulance even _come_ from?!

Q was not a raging, petty, vengeful man, but that’s what had come out in the face of Bond’s accusations.   And whilst Bond’s own actions -- the arse -- were certainly mitigating factors in Q’s reaction, he had worked with and around agents long enough to recognize the symptoms of mission fatigue.  Or should have done, had he not behaved like a seething nutter himself.

A crisp Thames breeze and some solitude, even in the midst of strangers, gave Q the clarity needed to realise that the unusually intense wrath Bond had demonstrated in the pub and the furious words that had burst forth in the midst of it had not been born from an innocent collision and a couple of spilled drinks, but rather from post-mission frustration, anger, and exhaustion.  Each of which would have only been exacerbated by the notable injuries he had sustained in Dunkirk. With Q’s new position came new clearances, and that included anything that could impact mission readiness. He had read Bond’s medical report before leaving Six for the pub.

Alec Trevelyan had once shared with Q that Bond had a tendency to isolate himself after a mission, and the more intense the mission, the longer the isolation.  Though Alec hadn’t ever said it outright, it had been clear to Q how much he hated to see his friend morose and brooding. Q was sure that 006 had hoped drawing Bond to the retirement party of a good friend would derail that compulsion to distance himself from others and be alone, for a little while at least.

Alec’s plan was … well, it had been a _shite_ plan.  If _this_ was how Bond behaved post-mission, perhaps the man was better off hibernating until spring, catch up on some obviously much-needed rest.

In Q’s own defence, Bond wasn’t the only one who was exhausted.  While Q had always thrived under pressure -- could, would, and _had_ worked days at a time with little to no sleep -- his life of late had been something altogether different.  In the month since becoming Quartermaster, Q had gone home to his flat exactly four times, and two of those had been solely to find clean clothes.  When he wasn’t in project, budgetary, or department head meetings, he was working with R to assess the current and projected needs of the branch and the assets they had to meet them.  Frustratingly, those needs seemed endless and their assets -- both human and resource -- were far too few to meet their goals.

Q had, in fact, started collecting ideas and plans for efficiency improvements years ago -- long before he’d been actively involved with any of the Branch management -- ever since R had casually mentioned the distressing lack of funding for fieldwork support and the ever-dropping staffing levels.  One of those efficiency improvement projects was the new holographic mission interface he hoped to fully integrate into his Operative Field Assistance Scheme. The new technology needed to run OFAS was far from inexpensive, but it would provide the intelligence and mission support necessary to keep his agents alive and shooting.  And agents were far more costly to replace than technology, after all. But, whilst Q had skilled technicians to set up and perform the initial calibrations on the interface hardware, he had written the software controlling it all, and that code was _his_ to troubleshoot, and thus all the truly annoying bugs had been his to discover and correct during beta-testing milk runs with 003.  And at M’s insistence, the project schedule that would normally have spanned months had been compressed into barely a fortnight.

He’d been promoted to Quartermaster not an hour after Boothroyd retired, and hadn’t _that_ been a shock?  

Weeks later, Q still felt the news imparted to him in M’s office that afternoon would have been less surprising had it been delivered by a Leprechaun wearing an inflatable moose head whilst dancing the Argentinian tango with a lemur.  He’d tried to refuse, but M was having none of it and told him if he refused she’d find multiple ways to make his life just as difficult as Boothroyd’s news had made hers. It was, apparently, not a topic that was open to negotiation.

“I don’t need 21st Century improvements, Quartermaster,” M told him next.  “I want you planning and implementing for the _22nd_ Century.  Get your department in order, and the rest of MI6 will have no choice but to follow.”   It was a demanding task, but it was one that Q had unintentionally been preparing for all along; he was grateful that M had given him significant latitude -- and an improved budget despite nearly a decade’s worth of austerity cuts -- to do what was necessary to make those changes come about.  ‘The sooner, the better, Quartermaster’ had been heavily implied.

“Use your words thoughtfully and make your decisions wisely, though, Quartermaster, for the choices you make in the next months will resonate for years to come. You have my support, but don’t think for an instant that I won’t bust you down to a secondary technician and ship you off to The Falklands if you bollocks this up.”

Q had believed her.

R had been waiting for him at Moneypenny’s desk when he’d finished.  Once she had him sat on the narrow sofa in his temporary office -- a heretofore unused space across the bullpen from Boothroyd’s digs, filled with hastily gathered furniture that would be replaced once The Major’s office was cleared  -- with a whisky in his hand, she helped him make sense of what had just happened. She also informed him she had made it clear to M years past that when the time came, she had absolutely no intention of taking on the Quartermaster’s role.  

“Well, don’t you think someone could have told _me_ that?!  A bit of warning would have been appreciated,” he had groused and with a petulant glare, tossed back the whisky and slammed the glass down on the coffee table.  He pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and pressed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, collapsing against the back of the bloody uncomfortable sofa with a groan of dismay.  R had not dignified the question or his antics with any sort of reply.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want it.  He was rather excited about it, in fact.  

He still wanted to retch.

A moment later, he had opened his eyes and looked blearily at R’s fuzzy outline sat on the sofa next to him.  “Am I ready for this, Grace? When I think what’s at stake …”

“Geoffrey and I have been trainin’ you up for it since you were hired on, m’boy, but we thought it’d be years still.”  She chuckled ruefully, her lilting Irish soothing him in ways few things did. “Guess we always had this idea of how he’d pop off blown up by his own tech.  A rather silly notion, I suppose.” R had reached out and patted his cheek affectionately. Q had always given her liberty to mother him in a way even his own mum didn’t have, but damned if he knew why.  “Trust yourself. Q, there’s no one in the whole of the British intelligence services who is more qualified or better prepared to take on this role than you.”

 _Q_.  

R had been the first to call him that.  Hearing it should have terrified him: there was so much history and responsibility and authority wrapped up in that one tiny consonant from the reject pile of the Scrabble heap … it should have felt overwhelming.  

But it hadn’t -- his name deposed by that letter -- it had felt _right_.  It didn’t make his apprehensions vaporise into the ether, however.    

So.  Exhaustion coupled with his lingering self-doubt -- fears that Bond could apparently tap into with instinctive ease -- equaled Q turning into an impolitic, tactless arse.  The agent had accused him of _being_ a child, but Q had certainly _acted_ the part.

Q groaned at his folly.  James Bond was the only one of MI6’s twelve Double-Os with whom Q didn’t have even the most basic connection.  Be it due to bad timing, Bond’s frequent extended missions and inevitable disappearing acts, his general indifference when it came to any member of TSS or R&D -- other than Boothroyd -- or a combination of all three, Q had done himself no favours with his petulant behaviour tonight.  A tantrum to rival that of the Major’s little granddaughters after one or the other made off with a favourite toy.

 _Weren’t busy enough, were you?_ he chided himself.   It would take time and a great deal of effort to pull such an essential relationship out of the skip, but it had to happen.  The agents had to buy into the new system he was setting up, and that required a functional and, dare he say, _trusting_ working relationship with each, but he wouldn’t pander to Bond’s legendary ego to establish one.  It might take Q the better part of his career to repair the cracks in the bedrock of professionalism that his _lack_ of it had created during a 10-minute argument in the middle of a bloody _pub_ of all places.  It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard it all before, from others.  Should be used to it already. Nevertheless, he needed to create a solid foundation upon which that rapport would stand, and to do so, he would meet Bond as an _equal_ .  Nothing less would suffice.   _Especially_ in light of the man’s reaction to Q himself.

Oh God!  And Boothroyd?!  How did he even begin to --

Amidst his and Bond’s charming game of ‘point/counterpoint’, Q had effectively called Boothroyd out to his face and placed the blame for the lost agents directly on the former Quartermaster.

Though far from perfect, Boothroyd was his friend, his mentor, and one of Q’s strongest supporters.  And whilst Q was concerned about the damage he may have done to his not-yet-working-relationship with the egocentric, recalcitrant Double-O, he was outright terrified of the harm he was certain he had caused to a man he loved like a father.

 _I’m sick to the back teeth of losing agents, and I’ll be_ damned _if I lose another_ , he had said.  Q couldn’t deny that part of him had wondered -- more than once -- whether or not the Major’s refusal to do more than authorise a prototype rather than fully implement OFAS when Q had pitched it a year ago had been a contributing factor in their deaths, but he had never given voice to that fear.

Until tonight.  Uncensored. In front of bloody everyone.

“Bloody, buggering, fuck!”  He punctuated his frustration with an angry slap against the chilled railing and straightened out of his slump.  A pair of young women with their arms slung around each other’s waists put their heads together and giggled as they passed behind him, not making any attempt -- as most of the other denizens of the bridge had done -- to conceal their amusement at his behaviour.  He ignored the pair. He neither knew them nor would likely ever seen them again.

Sadly, he could not say the same for his colleagues who had come to bid a fond farewell to his predecessor.

 _All very poorly done of you, Q_ , he told himself.   _Poorly done, indeed._

Checking the time on his mobile, he saw that he had just enough time to get back to Six for his meeting with M.

He’d fill her in on the events at the pub first thing.  Offer to put _himself_ on suspension.  God knows after his horrible display of temper, he more than deserved it, and the truth was he really could stand to sleep a night or two in his own bed and take some time to figure _how_ to pull out of the morass of poor managerial choices he had created for himself.  

If he was going to follow through with M’s edict and get his department in order, he’d have to first start with himself.

He’d pack himself off straight away, just as soon as he and 003 completed the Vaduz mission and Evans was safe and sound.  

Yes, that would do the trick.  He’d feel better after eating, sleeping at home, and spending some time in the enormous bathtub that had been one of his best jumble sale finds.  He groaned just thinking about it. Sadly, it would have to be merely the _thought_ of that lovely soak that carried him through the next few hours.  

Q picked up his anorak that had fallen to the pavement, pushed himself back from the railing, squared his shoulders, and continued on toward Vauxhall Cross.

Time to face the music.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let us know what you thought of this chapter. We *hope* to have the next chapter up in a couple of weeks, but we know that we each have a very busy life schedule in the weeks to come.
> 
> Comments are love, so don't forget to type a few words in that box down there and hit the button. :)
> 
> Cheers! Thank you, as always, for reading!


	4. Exploring the Impenetrable Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How in God’s name did a green kitling like that become Quartermaster?! How could he even be trusted with the responsibilities of such a position? 
> 
> Had M lost her touch? Or her mind?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're terribly sorry for the delay between the last chapter and this. As happens to so many writers, Real Life reared its ugly head and bit each of us in the arse. 
> 
> We hope that you enjoy this chapter, and it's our intention that the next few come a bit more swiftly in the weeks to come. This chapter has been betaed, but if any errors remain, it's because we accidentally fed and watered them along with the rest of the prose.

##  Chapter Four:  Exploring the Impenetrable Fortress

 

“The trick to not being discovered until it is too late is to become part of the expected surroundings. Stealth is more the art of blending in with the background than sneaking through dark shadows.” 

―  **Raymond E. Feist, King of Foxes**

 

* * *

 

James squeezed through a small gap in the bars of the narrow culvert that opened into the secondary docks beneath Vauxhall Cross.  The tunnel was one of three secret ingress points he used to access Six when he wanted to remain incognito. Security on the hatch was minimal, and James knew it was technically a potential breach he should have long since reported.  But, as it appeared on none of the blueprints for the building -- he’d checked, thoroughly -- and the terminus of the gutter was nearly a third of a mile downstream from Six itself in a place where not even the local wildlife cared to use it for shelter, he’d kept quiet on the find.  Besides, as was the case for the other two ingress points, it was far too small for anyone to make use of. Well, any  _ human _ , that is.  

It was, however, perfectly sized for a three-quarter stone, blue-eyed, short-haired, ginger tomcat.

James tucked himself into a familiar corner behind the petrol station used to refuel the speedboats in Six’s small fleet to give his eyes an opportunity to adjust from the pitch black of the tunnel to the brighter light of the docks.  His thoughts turned inward, eyes closed to conceal even the faintest gleam while he waited.

By keeping to the rooftops, he’d made his way home from the pub with relatively few obstacles: there had been the pigeons, but this was London, there were  _ always _ pigeons; a rather interesting romantic assignation in a rooftop garden on Ansdell Terrace, each member of the quartet was surprisingly flexible and had he been in a more amiable mood, James might have given the whole show more than a cursory glance.  

He had, however, taken the time to finally have it out with that self-important nofter tom and his pathetic little clowder on Wilby Mews.  

But neither the catfight, or the shower he’d taken once he’d pressed through the hidden, secure panel on the balcony of his flat and shifted back, nor the three glasses of Macallan he’d poured himself afterward had done anything to ease the tension that hummed beneath his skin.   

No.  That wasn’t entirely true.  The fight, the shower, and the whisky had done a decent enough job of dialing back the tension from the  _ mission _ .  The tension that had remained, however, was of an entirely different source.

Q.

_ That arrogant, jacked-up little shite!  _

James took pride in his ability to remain calm and collected no matter the circumstance.  It was what kept him alive in the field. Whether he was facing down a megalomaniacal terrorist bent on deploying a weapon of mass destruction, seducing that terrorist’s lover for necessary intelligence, or playing high-stakes poker for a multi-million-pound prize in the Casino Royale, James Bond did  _ not _ lose his cool.

Ever.  

Until he had.

In the middle of a bloody  _ pub _ , of all God-forsaken places!

And not just some random pub full of strangers he’d never lay eyes on again, but one full of colleagues with whom he’d worked -- and God willing, would continue to work with -- for years.

To  _ Q _ !  A sodding  _ teenager _ !

What the everlasting  _ fuck _ ?!

Yes, he had been tired, tense, and stressed, perhaps a bit more than usual just off a mission, but nothing completely out of line.  A few days solitude would have cured it. Though he was an ailuranthrope -- his human and feline selves always in balance -- there were aspects of and needs for that ‘self’ that were not dissimilar to those of a non-shifter house cat, not that he’d ever share that information with that deplorable Wilby Mews nofter.  Occasional solitude was one of them. 

No matter what Alec thought on the matter, James was no introvert.  Not in the slightest. Granted, he wasn’t the supreme extrovert his best mate was -- Alec seemed to think any and all ailments (up to and including migraines and the flu) were curable by noisy hordes of strangers, the prat -- but James enjoyed company and socialisation as well as the next bloke.  

But not all the time.  

Not when he was a whisker away from throttling or thrashing anyone who so much as looked at him in the wrong way. Tonight, after surviving the shiteshow in France and the raking over the coals he’d got from M and from Medical before her, all James had really needed, what he had practically  _ begged _ Alec to give him, was a little bit of time alone.  Just a couple of days. Would that have been too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

Because had the bloody, bull-headed berk listened?  Fuck no. 

Redirecting Alec when his mind was made up about something was like riding one of those ridiculous American bulls in one of their atrocious rodeos: forget about control, just hang on for dear life and hope that you don’t get trampled when the blasted beast throws you off.  

Alec Trevelyan: bull-headed to the end.  It was an excellent trait for an agent. No one could question his focus or tenacity, but it was sometimes a shite quality to have in a friend. 

Though Alec had been the bull, he hadn’t been the beast this time.  No -- keeping on theme -- it had been James who’d managed to rampage through the proverbial china shop.  He hadn’t given a damn about the fucking ponce he’d been trading verbal jabs with, but that the entire exchange had occurred in full view -- and hearing -- of the majority of his colleagues and peers.

Unacceptable.  

Another heated flush of embarrassment and humiliation rippled across his fur-covered skin, and he hissed faintly at the memory.

This time, there was no one around to hear him.  

James needed to know more about this new Quartermaster.  He felt himself at a distinct disadvantage in the information department. 

Alec clearly knew the lanky git and seemed comfortable enough with him.  Hell, he even appeared  _ friendly _ with the little sod, and wasn’t  _ that _ an interesting little snippet of information?  Eve and Bill looked to be friends with him, too, for that matter.  Obviously, Boothroyd and R would know him, working in the same branch.  Even M must know the bastard since she’d appointed him Quartermaster to begin with.  But to make matters worse, that posh, little prat knew about  _ him _ and was more than passingly familiar with his latest mission.  

God knew what else.  

And James?  What did James know about the high and mighty little fucker?  Only what he’d gleaned from the sole encounter they’d had when he’d been far from his best and more focused on verbally taking the shite down a peg or three than he’d been on figuring out what made the little sod tick.  Or on who the fuck the boy was in the first place. 

How in God’s name did a green kitling like  _ that _ become Quartermaster?!  How could he even be trusted with the responsibilities of such a position?  

Had M lost her touch?  Or her mind?!

_ What the fuck is going on? _

James took a deep breath.  A purposeful breath. 

Inhale, hold and count, exhale.  

Lungs expanding.

Awareness focused on the count.

Breath out.  

Repeat.  And again.

He felt his racing heart slow a bit and collected his thoughts.

So.  What  _ did  _ he know?  Precious little. Far too many unanswered questions.  

He’d known he needed intel, and the sooner the better.  Under other circumstances, he’d be able to subtly interrogate Alec, Eve, even Bill or R for that matter.  But now? After that shiteshow in the pub? Not a chance. Eve would smirk at him and probably string him along just to watch him wriggle on her hook.  Bill might have been helpful, but after his front row seat to the pub’s unplanned entertainment, James would get no help from that quarter. 

And Alec?  Alec would be as likely to punch him in the jaw as give him dirt if his betrayal in the pub were anything to go by.

No, James would get no answers from his so-called friends, nor would he from moping around his empty flat nursing countless whiskies.  

For once, the silence of his flat made him itchy and restless.

So.  It had been time to take things into his own hands.  Or paws.

And thus he was sat, deep in the bowels of Six, preparing to gather the intel himself.  

As discreetly as possible.

_ Q _ \-- the child -- had mentioned he would be doing something for 003 sometime after midnight, and James had thought it the perfect opportunity to observe the prat covertly.  It would have taken too long for him to make the journey shifted, and his Aston would have drawn too much attention in the unsecured car parks scattered around Lambeth, even this late at night.  

Though still far from sober and with his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat in spite of the additional paracetamol he’d tossed back with the whiskies, James had changed into trainers, a ragged pair of denims and an old hoodie left from his days in the Royal Navy.  He’d taken one of the later trains on the Circle Line -- yes, he  _ did _ know how to take the Tube, thank you kindly, Moneypenny! -- from Notting Hill Gate to Westminster Station where he crossed the Bridge on foot and limped along the South Bank to Lambeth Bridge.  Finding a dark and CCTV free alley across from Lambeth Palace, he shifted and dropped down to the riverbank, eventually entering the culvert.

Eyes finally adjusted and thoughts as ordered as could he could manage, for now, James uncurled, stretched as fully as he was able given his injuries, and set off to achieve his goal.  

He used the diminished lighting of Six’s night shift protocols and the scotopic vision of his shifted state to seek his quarry.  Keeping to the darker corridors and the crawl spaces, James surreptitiously hitched a ride up to R&D beneath the tarp of a pallet of metal fabrication equipment being moved by the blokes from Receiving.  Not finding Q in any of the labs, James crept through a half-dozen access conduits, eventually finding himself in the back corner of the Technical Support Services bullpen. 

In deference to the late hour, the lights were even dimmer in here than in the rest of the building, so it wasn’t until James sat on top of the storage cabinet beside some random techie’s vacant station that he was able to truly take in the space.  What he saw left him startled and ... rather amazed. 

If he were putting a name to the feeling.  Which he most certainly was  _ not _ .

He recognized Q, of course, and barely contained the angry lashing of his tail at the sight of the skinnymalinky.  The shite stood on a long and narrow cushioned mat atop a slightly raised, oblong platform with his back to the room.  The dais was about the length and width of James’ Aston and was surrounded on three sides by a wide, gently curved workbench, the top of which came to just below his elbows.  From his perch, James could see that several touch-based computer screens were embedded in the surface of the station. Q’s fingers danced across those interfaces, frequently dipping down to peck rapidly at the pair of keyboards in front of him, just visible beneath the worktop where they sat on a shelf of some kind. The gangly sod spared the interfaces and the keyboards only the occasional glance, however.  The bulk of his attention was fixated on the holographic display that encompassed the whole of the back wall.

While James hadn’t spent a great deal of time in either TSS or R&D since becoming a Double-O, he had been in the Major’s domain enough that he could immediately tell that the sleek and surprisingly elegant interface at the other end of the room was not of Boothroyd’s design or era.  Hell, it didn’t even appear to be of the  _ current _ era. 

The HUD belonged in some high-budget Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster rather than in the bowels of MI6.  The dim light of the bullpen only served to enhance the vivid colours and crisp, HD quality of the images. The complex array of displays -- which was broken up into a central ‘screen’ surrounded by six smaller ones -- seemed to shift and flow in an intricate and frankly nauseating dance of light.  

As James’ feline eyes adjusted to the visual, he began to pick out the patterns contained within the apparent chaos.  The information on the screens seemed to shift, sometimes switching places between a smaller screen and the larger central space and sometimes increasing or decreasing size.  

“As anticipated, in addition to those inside the facility, they’ve set up CCTV cameras throughout the forest, and seem to be relying on them for their external security.  No evidence of guards on patrol outside, and it’s not a closed system,” said a woman who stood at a smaller, though similarly constructed workstation next to Q’s. James’ sensitive ears twitched at the first verbal communication he’d heard since arriving. 

Only his long history of training and field-experience prevented the rest of him from twitching as well.  Fuck was he tired if mere words nearly startled him off his perch.

“Ill-advised of them.  Do remind me to send a ‘thank you’ card … should anyone live to receive it, of course,” Q murmured more to himself than in direct response to the girl; his attention remained focussed on whatever he was pulling up on the screens, completely unaware of the third presence in the bullpen.

“I’ve hacked into the system and, based on what we know about their internal security, put each camera on a continuous recorded loop that cycles every 12 minutes.  All cameras are now under our control, and their feeds have been linked to your console, Q,” 

The boffin responded with a murmur of acknowledgment he drew out until he was humming and then actually singing under his breath as he continued to set up … whatever it was at his station.  James’ ears rotated to catch the lyrics -- wait! 

The fuck?  _ Eurythmics _ ?!  

“ To run away from you … Was all that I could do.”  Q had taken off his glasses as he sang and was in the process of -- 

_ What?  _ Eye _ drops?  Okay …  _

\-- putting in eye drops when the cap of the bottle, which he had gripped between the index and middle finger of his right hand, fell to the ground and rolled beneath the station.

“Bugger me,” Q complained and dropped carefully to his hands and knees and slid beneath the workstation, reaching out blindly -- glasses still on the worktop, the dolt -- searching for the cap.  

Q had apparently changed since dousing himself, and James, in gin and tonic and whisky, and James found it impossible to turn his gaze from the arse on display in the awful burgundy and grey checked trousers.  They really were hideous. His Oxfords were surprisingly respectable, considering. 

Oblivious to the agent’s presence or derision, Q continued to sing softly as he searched -- “I was feeling low … Now every time I think of you … I shiver to the bone …” -- patting at a floor he clearly couldn’t see with his palm rather than fetching a torch like a sensible human being.  By the time he finally fished out the cap, Q had made it through to the second chorus of “Thorn in My Side.”

Getting to his feet as he finished the final refrain, Q brushed at the fabric around his knees twice, squinted at the cap and scrubbed it against his cardigan before he screwed it back on the bottle and set it in a small tray at the back of the worktop.  As he put his glasses back on, a chime sounded quietly in the room, and James saw the girl glance at a second screen embedded in the top of her workstation before turning to the boffin.

“Double-O Three coming online in ten, sir,” she informed him. 

The change in the Quartermaster’s demeanor was an almost tangible thing.  He had seemed distant and distracted when at his station and as he sang, almost as if he were not fully aware or concerned about his surroundings -- a typical teenager lost in a video game world -- but at the tone, he seemed to come back into himself:  cognizant and alert with a focussed tension that filled his lanky frame. Even his posture seemed to straighten: a hint of authority in the set of his shoulders. It was a posture James had seen countless times in the field. Q was ready for whatever the mission was going to throw his way.

Or  _ thought _ he was.

_ We’ll see about that _ , James thought, quite certain he knew what was about to unfold and how.  

“Thank you, Mariam,” Q said with a nod in her direction.  He fished something out of the pocket of those awful trousers and pushed it into his ear.

_ Earwig _ , thought James, his own ears twitched again as did the tip of his tail.

“Good morning, Double-O Three.  How is Vaduz?” Q said, fingers flying across his interface.  He never once looked down at any of the keyboards, James noted, but kept his attention fixed on the images popping up on the various HUD screens two metres in front of him.

James was thankful that his sharp, feline hearing allowed him to hear both sides of the conversation, the agent’s voice just audible to him from the earwig in Q’s ear.

“Q, it’s half one.  It’s February. It’s bloody cold and dark!” Three replied, letting her natural Welsh accent out to play as James knew it did when Constance was particularly relaxed.  It was a good sign, interestingly enough. It meant that she was particularly focussed on the mission. “What did you expect it would be like?” 

James could see Evans’ digitally enhanced shadow on the centre display.   Dressed in standard infiltration kit, she was crouched low within a thick copse of trees some 30 metres from a large cottage that one of the smaller displays indicated was just over three kilometres outside of town.  

“Point taken.  Apologies,” Q replied evenly.  Evans was rubbing her hands together in spite of the fact that they were clad in mission-grade, Thinsulate-lined leather gloves.  The temperature on Q’s screen read -7 degrees, and the wind was out of the northwest at 13 kph. 

_ Fuck.  Yeah _ , James thought.   _ Cold _ .  

Though the bullpen wasn’t anywhere near as frigid as Vaduz, he was suddenly quite grateful for the warm fur his mum’s side of the family had gifted him.  His feline traits had saved his life more than once over the years. His Da’s lineage, well, it would’ve made being a Double-O rather awkward at times. Antlers had a nasty habit of catching on everything, though they could have occasionally been useful in a fight.  But living in London? No. James was grateful he’d taken after his mum. The sheer ubiquity of cats in the city meant he had no trouble blending in. They were  _ everywhere _ .  

“No, it’s fine, Q,” Constance said, interrupting James’ musings.  She had made her way to a new thicket beneath another CCTV camera some distance closer to the cottage. “Just wishing for my bed and the warm body I left behind to get this done.” 

Q’s fingers seemed to -- incredibly -- pick up speed, and James noticed that whatever he was doing on those high tech interfaces of his seemed to be controlling what information was displayed on the HUD.  While the man’s reflexes seemed almost ailuranthropic in nature, the bastard hadn’t displayed any of the other, more subtle, mannerisms typical of a therianthrope -- none that James had picked up on anyway -- when they’d stood practically toe to toe in the pub. 

“Well then, far be it from me to be the cause of even further delay,” Q said, interrupting James’ thoughts.  “Are you in position?”

“Near as.  You? Everything plugged in on your end this time, Q?  Won’t do us much good if when I get in there you find out that Tab A isn’t fitted into Slot B, yeah.”

The girl, Mariam, Q had called her, chuckled.  James had noted she’d activated her own communication system at the same time Q had done, so she clearly wasn’t just a random tech working late at a nearby station, but actively involved with whatever this  _ pantomime _ was.

“This is a  _ little _ more complicated than IKEA flat packs, Three.  But yes, Q had me do a full system test once I finished rerouting those cables and adjusting the holo-emitters.  Even made sure the Smart Glass got a bit of a polish just ‘because.’ What happened at the drop in Bruges won’t happen again,” she promised.

“Every new system has issues to be worked out.  That’s why we ran so many simulations around London and chose the information exchange and the embassy dinner for the final beta-testing:  milk runs, both of them. I wasn’t about to put you at risk during testing,” Q added primly. He took a sip from the steaming mug that sat not far from his hand.

_ Lefty _ , James noted.

Constance looked over her shoulder directly at the CCTV camera that was broadcasting her image onto the screen inside TSS. She touched two fingers to her brow and saluted the electronic eye, and by extension, Q.  “Well, even Sulu forgot to take the parking brake off, and he’s pretty bad arse.”

“Didn’t we agree to  _ never _ speak of the embassy dinner again?” Q groused, apparently knowing full well what Evans meant by the allusion.  

“Awkward as hell, that was,” Constance admitted.  “Never managed to get the blasted stain out of the silk by the way.”

James had no idea what they were talking about -- and couldn’t have cared less -- but while the quality of the CCTV feed wasn’t good enough for James to see Evans’ trademark sarcastic smirk, he heard it in her voice.  There was something else in her tone, though. Humour, yes, but Constance was by far the most jovial of the Double-Os, so nothing surprising there. 

No, in spite of the playfulness that had characterized the exchange since she had come online, it was clear that Constance had a great deal of respect for Q. 

Q gestured at something that had popped up on the central screen and with a flick of his wrist -- that even to James seemed laden with irritated embarrassment -- sent the data sliding across the Smart Glass to the secondary screen closest to Mariam where she would apparently deal with it. 

“Give the dress to Textiles,” Mariam added helpfully as she attended to the information Q had sent her.  “They’re excellent at getting all sorts of bo--”

“I do  _ not _ want to know!”  Q rubbed at his forehead in the universal way that indicated a developing headache, and if he hadn’t been such an arse earlier, James might have felt a bit of sympathy for the kid.  James liked the woman, but Constance could be trying at times, and despite being an excellent Double-O seemed incapable of not needling any colleague within a hundred metre radius. James had once threatened to seal Evans’ mouth shut with gaffer’s tape when they were on a joint mission.  How Constance’s seemingly endless snark didn’t give away her position when she was in the field was something her fellow agents couldn’t begin to fathom. And in this Miriam seemed to find a disturbing level of glee egging Evans on.

“C’mon, Quartermaster.  The Enterprise got there eventually, and it was Sulu’s mistake that kept them from all getting killed in orbit around Vulcan.  If you say you’ve worked out the kinks, that this system of yours is good to go, I trust you.” 

Mariam’s snicker was only partially muffled by her palm, and she grinned openly when Q flapped his hand at her.  The two boffins clearly had a comfortable working relationship. James would have rolled his eyes if his feline form allowed it.  Instead, he twitched his whiskers.

When he was shifted, James rarely felt the need to be a part of the action if he wasn’t in the field on a mission of his own.  He was content, on the whole, to feed his natural inquisitiveness through observation rather than participation. From his current perch, James could see the screens decently well -- even if their content didn’t precisely make sense to him -- and hear most of the conversation between the three on comms.  

The tom yawned widely and shook his head as vigorously as he could, given his injuries, to try and shake himself alert.  He felt downright drowsy, and was also beginning to wonder if -- rather than when -- they’d actually start ...

Q relayed some additional details to the agent, the mission was to apparently infiltrate the headquarters of a small, but exceedingly deadly terrorist cell that had taken up residence outside the Liechtensteinian capital.  

“Let’s get this done, then, shall we?”  The new Quartermaster adjusted his spectacles then settled his hands loosely atop his keyboards.  “And get you back to your companion.”

At Q words, James’ head snapped up from where it had been resting on top of his front paws.  He had, embarrassingly, started to nod off -- again -- whilst waiting for things to get rolling.  

“With pleasure, Q.”  Even those three words were infused with Constance’s characteristic innuendo. James’ whiskers twitched again.

Q’s head angled this way and that in a manner that indicated to James Q was taking in all the data on the various screens in front of him before he --

“Double-O Three ...” the tone and pitch of Q’s voice dropped, grew even more serious as he focussed his attention completely on the agent and the mission -- incidentally sending an unexpected shiver down James’ spine --  “… in three … two … one … go, go, go!”

And 003 went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let us know if you enjoyed this chapter. Comments are love and feed the souls of exhausted writers.
> 
> Ta!


	5. A Weapon Used with Honour and Skill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evans’ odds of surviving this mission had just dropped significantly, and the anger that had cooled to a low simmer since he’d left the pub threatened to boil over again. How could M send Three on a mission like this without backup? What the fuck was Q thinking running an experiment -- because that’s clearly what this clusterfuck was -- with an agent’s life hanging in the balance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOO HOOOOO! We actually managed to get this chapter out in one month. You've no idea how excited we are about that, especially considering how insane real life continues to be, or as SB said to me tonight, "2018 feels unending and yet how are we halfway through ALREADY?!"
> 
> Amen!
> 
> Anyway, we hope that you enjoy.

##  Chapter Five:  A Weapon Used with Honor and Skill 

“A good swordsman is more important than a good sword.” 

―  **Amit Kalantri** ,  **Wealth of Words**

* * *

 

 

James watched along with the Quartermaster and Miriam as Evans slipped into the main building through a shed that connected to the basement of the large cottage via a partially collapsed tunnel.  A small camera embedded in the top-most button of 003’s coat provided her  _ handler _ \-- James’ tail lashed at the thought of that word -- with a view of the mission from the agent’s perspective.  It fed to the HUD in real time and ran on the screen in the upper left corner of the display. James squinted at it.  The picture was clear when 003 was stopped, but when she was moving James found he was too far away from the system to make out the detail on the shaky feed.

James huffed in annoyance and stood up stiffly.  

Next to the cabinet on which he’d been sat was a shelving unit filled top to bottom with covered tubs of parts and other bits and bobs.  He picked his way across the stacked containers, careful to leave them undisturbed in spite of his twisted knee and dodgy front leg; the bullet graze he’d taken to his right arm had been more of a gouge, but he’d not given Medical a chance to tend to it as they’d wanted to.  Consequently, his balance was off, but that may have also been thanks to the concussion or the whisky. Or both. Unfortunately, shifting didn’t cure the effects of injury, illness, or intoxication, for all that it did allow those issues to resolve faster than they would for a strevio, let alone a nofter. 

There was another cupboard on the far side of the shelves, and then a gap forced by a door that led off to the side. James considered the space and his injuries carefully before silently springing across the void onto the metal top of the cabinet beyond, grateful that his hind legs were at least partially functional and that his momentary scramble for purchase went unnoticed by the two boffins.  Two more cabinets followed by another shelving unit and James was almost level with Q when he ran out of free-standing cupboards over which to travel.

Head a bit woozy after his efforts, James settled down on top of the largest plastic tub on the wire shelf and curled his tail around his tucked-in paws.  He was in a perfect position to both effectively look over Q’s shoulder at all the screen feeds and to see at least part of the boy’s face.

Q increased the size of the button-cam feed with a casual gesture of his hand at the Smart Glass.  James would have hissed in frustration if it wouldn’t have given away his presence. Couldn’t the bloody boffin have done that  _ before _ he’d traipsed halfway around the wretched room?

James had to consciously relax himself: still the flexing of his claws and smooth down his fur.  He was there to observe, to gather intel, not to give serious thought to boffin-scratching.

Double-O Three’s mission was Eliminate and Retrieve: kill the terrorists and obtain the hard drives from their servers.  Intel indicated that the content of the drives would reveal that cell’s plans and potentially those of several sister cells believed to be scattered throughout Europe.  

On the large centre screen ran the satellite imagery of nearly two dozen infrared signatures -- the heat generated by the bodies of 003’s targets.  

James’ tail began to flick with irritation.   _ What in the fuck’s Q going to do,  _ talk _ Connie through this? _

It wasn’t until 003 found the stairs that James realised that was  _ precisely _ what the Quartermaster was going to do.

_ He’s ‘handling’ her _ .  James was still appalled but suddenly a bit … intrigued.  For all her light-hearted and carefree ways, Constance did not suffer fools and was fiercely independent in the manner in which she approached her work.  Why in hell would she permit --

“The most logical place for them to house their servers is at the northwest corner of the ground floor,” Q spoke, drawing James’ attention back to the mission.    “If they’re the least bit competent, the door will be secured with a lock you cannot pick, but I can. I won’t bore you with the technobabble that would explain how it all works, but before we proceed, I need you to put on the ring I included in your kit.  No need to take off your gloves, just slide it over the leather. It will fit.”

James, Q, and Mariam all watched 003’s PoV feed.  Rather than speak -- much as she might normally keep up a continuous stream of banter, she would run silent until she was detected or it no longer mattered if they heard her -- 003 raised her left hand so it was level with the button-cam and slid the ring on so all could see. 

“Right.  Thank you, Double-O Three.”   James could tell that Q’s attention was completely focussed on the infrared display.  He typed in several commands, and the display suddenly changed. The raw, grainy satellite imagery disappeared and was replaced with a 3D computer generated model of the interior of the cottage.  The infrared signatures still moved about the house, however, so James assumed the computer program was receiving its data directly from the satellite, or something, since the signatures were separated by floors and a satellite's top-down view wouldn’t have given such a display.  At least James didn’t  _ think  _ that would be the case.  

For the first time, James noted the Quartermaster wore a pair of thin, finger-hugging gloves shot through with some type of wire or filament, ending at the base of the first knuckle on each finger.  With a wave of his hand, Q separated the 3D model into fourths, one for each level of the cottage save the basement. He plucked out the ground floor between his thumb and index finger and expanded it on the centre display, minimized the other three whilst still keeping them separate from each other, and with a flick, sent them to the top of the screen. 

James had never seen the like.    

“Double-O Three, you will move on my mark.  Once you reach the top of the stairs, turn right and take the second corridor on your left.  The door you want will be at the end of that hallway. You should not encounter resistance.” 

The ground floor model showed seven signatures.  Three were stationary in the southeast corner of the cottage. _  A bedroom, most likely _ , James thought.  Two were farther up that corridor.  They moved about within the room, but were contained.  Possibly a kitchen or some other small communal area. From long years of experience and observation, James was able to recognise the patterns of the final two who were constantly on the move yet never entered any of the rooms they passed.  

Patrol.  Internal security.

Double-O Three paused as Q watched the screen in front of him waiting until the duo approached a safe distance in the opposite direction from Three’s position, yet not so far that their return path would cause them to come across the agent prematurely.

“Three … two … one … mark.”

Constance was up the stairs, through the corridors, and standing in front of the door she needed within 20 seconds.  Q had kept her apprised of the location of the patrol the entire time.

“Expertly done.  Thank you. Now, the lock, please,” Q requested, and 003 adjusted her stance so that the handle filled the PoV screen.  

Q’s hum this time was one of recognition.  “As I thought. Good.” 

James had not the slightest idea what was so good about it.  He’d encountered similar locks on his own missions. Q had been right when he’d told Connie she wouldn’t be able to pick it.  James had only ever been able to get through such a lock by shooting it or blowing it up. In other words, it created a great deal of noise, and Constance was sharing space with close to 20 people who’d all be quite eager to kill her if she revealed her presence.  

Or worse.

Evans’ odds of surviving this mission had just dropped significantly, and the anger that had cooled to a low simmer since he’d left the pub threatened to boil over again.  How could M send Three on a mission like this without backup? What the fuck was Q thinking running an experiment -- because that’s clearly what this clusterfuck was -- with an agent’s life hanging in the balance?  

“Double-O Three, please twist the ring on your finger so that you can press the flat of the signet against the side of the mechanism and activate the button switch on the bottom of the band.”

James knew the instant Three had done as she’d been asked because the bottom right-hand screen, which had thus far lain dormant, exploded to life with a steady flow of numbers.  Q captured that screen with a gesture, and began typing rapidly on his keyboard. He kept at it steadily for twenty seconds … thirty … forty … saying nothing but focussed on the screen in front of him until he muttered a triumphant, “Got it!” under his breath and reached out his left hand to his second keyboard.  The stream stopped: a single line of highlighted numbers flashed and grew in size. Q hit the enter key, and after a moment, long enough for the command to transmit the 700 miles to Vaduz, James saw the locking mechanism on the PoV screen flash green. Double-O Three was inside the server room a heartbeat later. 

With the Quartermaster’s guidance, it took only seven minutes for 003 to secure the hard drives.  

James had been assigned similar missions in the past, and whilst he was adequately skilled at retrieving technology, it wasn’t his area of expertise, nor was it 003’s.  As he watched Constance stow the hard drives in the specially constructed cases that would ensure their safe transport, James had to -- albeit reluctantly -- admit that without Q providing both technical and field support, this retrieval would not have gone nearly as smoothly as it had to this point.  

He didn’t know how he felt about that. 

No.  That wasn’t wholly accurate.  Double-O Three’s infiltration of the cottage had been flawless.  Q and his technology had given Constance not just eyes in the back of her head but, more importantly, someone who had her back.  It was a rare thing when Double-Os went out in tandem -- this was by nature a solo profession -- and, consequently, agents were always looking behind them, literally and metaphorically.  Yes, it was part of the job, part of the exhilaration, but there was something to be said for knowing there was someone else out there, seeing things from an entirely different perspective but just as determined to succeed as you.  

The loss of autonomy, however … 

_ “Younger blood and newer ideas will increase our life expectancy in the field,” _ Alec had said at the pub.

_ “It’s time, and then some, for the lot of you to learn that whilst the mission isn’t expendable, neither is the agent,” _ Q had argued.  

On one level it made perfect sense, but that didn’t stop the shudder of uneasiness that skittered beneath his fur.  Did M no longer trust them or their instincts that she’d have their choices made for them by a pup with no field experience of his own?  Were Double-Os now only worth the time and energy it took for them to pull a trigger? 

Once again, Q’s quiet, posh voice pulled James’ focus: it washed over him in a way that oddly soothed him even as it antagonised with the unspoken message embedded beneath the words themselves. “Phase One complete, Double-O Three. Thank you,” Q said once both hard drives were tucked away securely inside Evans’ utility vest.  “Please commence Phase Two at your discretion.”

“Roger that, Quartermaster.”  James heard Constance’s voice for the first time since the op began; every ounce of the cheek from earlier had leached from her tone.  She was all business. “Reconfirm: This is the cell responsible for the attack on the aquatics park in Dorset that killed those kids from the day school four months ago.”

“Intelligence confirmed by three independent sources, Double-O Three.”  Q brought up several images from Six’s archives, replacing the still flashing code to the door lock with documents and photos of the incident in question as well as the intelligence that had led Six to this isolated cottage in the snowy woods.  The children had been visiting the centre for a celebratory school trip when the terrorists drove their stolen lorry through the ticket queue outside. Twenty-seven people had been injured and 12 killed, including eight seven-year-olds and their teacher.  

James shuddered on his perch.  He wasn’t one to spend much thought for children, his own potential children or other people’s actual children, but the images he’d previously seen of that carnage had been horrific:  torn and bloodied little bodies scattered all about. He clamped his teeth on the growl that threatened to emerge and surprised himself by hoping Connie made the terrorists’ deaths as painful as the limited time allowed her to.

“The numbers, please?”  Constance had moved back toward the door.  The button-cam showed that she was readying her two Sigs.  James had always thought that 003’s penchant for using two handguns at a time to be overly flamboyant -- they were counterintelligence agents not console gamers for Chrissake -- but there was no doubting Evans’ effectiveness with the weapons.

“Eighteen hostiles.”  Q pulled down the remaining 3D graphics of the cottage, expanding each in its own screen as he assessed the location of the terrorists throughout the building.  “Level Three is clear. Basement remains clear. Seven targets on ground level; six targets, level one; five targets, level two.”

Q took his hands from the keyboards and clasped them behind his back, motionless, standing at ease.   He had been a flurry of methodical, purposeful motion since the mission began, and the sudden absence of it further shocked James out of the exhausted torpor he had been struggling with all night. 

“I will be your eyes, assisting you in real time, Double-O Three, but the mission is now yours to run.”

Evans nodded at Q via the CCTV camera in the corner of the room.  “Then here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let us know what you thought. We're not looking for concrit, but comments are love and feed the souls of these two weary writers.


	6. Solving Serious Matters in the Middle of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clear concern and frustration in the Quartermaster’s voice was not what James expected to hear nor was the motherly pat R delivered to the shoulder on which her hand rested something he expected to see. The Quartermaster had seemed cold and intractable in that awful pub confrontation, but here in the bullpen with a colleague -- a peer -- well, it was almost like seeing another person entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up, and it's not yet been a month since the last one! The pressure's on to finish this one up, though, as sign-ups for next year's RBB have started. 
> 
> Please let us know what you think of the chapter. We hope you enjoy.

##  Chapter Six:  Solving Serious Matters in the Middle of the Night

 

“Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” 

―  **Ovid**

* * *

 

 

Forty-five minutes after the Quartermaster surrendered control of the mission to his agent, Constance Evans, MI6’s 003, was climbing the stairs to her hotel room, her bed, and her companion who lay within.  With the exception of a couple of bruised ribs, a dislocated then relocated little finger, and a knife laceration to the back of her shoulder -- “It’s barely even a scratch, Q, really” -- she was fit and whole.

“That’s you sorted then, Three?”  Mariam questioned. 

“Yep, and frankly I’m a having a hard time believing that entire  _ cenhadaeth  _ only took 93 minutes.  Q, I haven’t said it before, but I’m dead chuffed you’ve come up with this scheme.”  Constance’s casual thumb’s up in the button-cam’s feed was clearly visible in the lighting of the hotel’s stairwell.  “When’s it going live for the rest?” 

Q shrugged though Evans couldn’t see it.  “I’ve still to discuss further expansion with M.  She wanted preliminary data before committing additional resources.  This was the third proper mission, but she might want more testing.”

“I know I’ve taken the piss and given you lot shite about it, but I’ll gladly be your guinea pig again.  I rather like not needing the entire bleeding army at my back. They’re handy in a pinch, but for snatch and grabs like this, always felt a bit overkill.”

“Right.”  Q coughed, batting away Marian’s amused eye roll at Three’s hyperbole with a hand-flap in her direction.  “Well, speaking of backup, your ex-fil is scheduled for mid-day. R or Alastair will forward the details to your mobile by 0800 UTC.  Well done, Ms. Evans. Thank you.”

“I think it’s past time for you to call me Connie, Q, yeah?”

Q’s fingers froze on his keyboard, and James’ tail flicked in response to Constance’s assertion.  It was well known to both men as well as to the SIS as a whole that Evans was extremely particular about whom she permitted to call her by her nickname, and neither man had anticipated Q receiving this clear offer of friendship beyond that of the collegial.

“Certainly … Connie.”  Q replied, testing the name on his tongue.  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat and shifted his feet on his pad, again becoming the Quartermaster.  “Have a pleasant journey home, and I expect to see you safe and sound in debrief. HQ signing off.”

“Aye aye, Capt’n, an’ I’ll keep my distance from the badgers this time, don’t ya worry.  Double-O Three, out.”

Evans tossed a cocky salute into the view of the button-cam before both the audio and video feeds went dead.

“ _ Badgers _ ?”  asked Mariam, bewildered.  “What’s the story there?” the young tech asked, beginning a diagnostic routine on her station.

The Quartermaster huffed out a breath.  “A bizarre one, but strangely in keeping with what I’ve come to expect from Double-O Three.  She stumbled upon an entire cete of the beasts on that mission she had last year in Romania. They apparently didn’t take kindly to the interruption.  She was fine. They treed her for a few hours until they lost interest. Apparently not even angry badgers can outlast Ms. Ev-  _ Connie _ when it comes to waiting out an enemy, but it’s been a bit of a ‘thing’ ever since.”

“Only Three,” Mariam snorted as she looked over the diagnostic readout.  Satisfied with what she saw on her screens, she started the station’s shutdown procedure.  

“And thank God for  _ that _ .  How’s things?”  Q nodded at her station and began his own diagnostics and shut-down of his larger system.

Mariam completed her task and grinned in satisfaction.  “Right as houses,” she declared. “I’ve sent the data to you for analysis.”  She looked about her to ensure everything was as she wanted it. Efficient. Precise. James wondered if that was her natural preference or something Q expected of the people in his department.

“‘Kay I’m off then, I’ve that eval with Johnstone at half eight. Ta!”  With that Mariam grabbed the shoulder bag she had stashed under her station and trotted off, a cheery wave the last sight either James or Q had of her before she vanished through the bullpen doors.

A quick glance at the digital clock on the wall opposite told James it was already nearly two a.m.  He should go, too. His muscles had stiffened up, and he should’ve been icing his knee instead of spending a couple of hours perched atop a shelving unit gathering intel on the new Quartermaster.  

Granted, he healed more quickly when shifted, but it still took time, and there was something to be said for ice packs, painkillers, and other human palliatives to help things along.  The butterfly bandages that had closed the wound on his forearm had fallen off when he shifted -- the sodding things never managed to stay affixed to his fur, and, unlike his clothing, he routinely neglected to account for them with the shift -- and it had been oozing enough blood that his front leg was now slick with it.  He licked idly at the mess before giving it up as a bad job and dropped his head to the top of his paws. He’d rest for a little bit, then find a more expedient way out of Six before the day shift arrived. It then became notably more complicated for him to sneak out relatively unseen, especially if he was leaving a trail of bloody paw prints behind. 

A discrete throat-clearing alerted Q -- and James -- to R’s presence.  Q nodded at her but didn’t speak as he finalised the far more extensive diagnostic run-through of his equipment.  Only after he’d sent the readouts to the server in his office did he straighten up -- his joint-popping stretch made James’ own bones ache with appreciation -- and peel the fine gloves from his hands.  Q folded them neatly and stowed them in the pocket of his trousers, then fished out his earwig, wiping it with an alcohol swab from the packet he’d stashed under his keyboard, and placed it in the tray next to the eye drops he had stashed there earlier.  He dropped the packet and the paper cloth into the bin beside the workstation.

“Thoughts?” he asked R as she approached.

Tonight’s mission had been the final test not only for the technology for the OFAS system but also of the agent/handler compatibility factor in determining mission success.  With the exception of a few minor miscommunications, things had gone rather well between agent and handler, so that aspect of the mission could be counted a success, but there were still bugs to be worked out on the technical side.   

“There’s that odd lag on the display update when that button cam is first switched on -- you have Harris working on it already, though -- but Herself seemed pleased with what she saw.  I think you’ll get the rest o’ the funding for the other two stations,” R replied cheerfully. She handed him a bottle of cold water. 

Q scratched his eyebrow and looked over at the balcony in front of the offices that sat half a level above the rest of the bullpen where M stood in those rare times she popped down to note the goings on in her technical divisions.   

“She stopped by?  Excellent. I’d rather hoped she would.  Seeing it in action will make much more of an impact than all the pretty sales pitches I could make.  I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t notice her come or go, though.”

“Yes, well, you had a few other things to focus on, to be sure.”  R laughed at his rueful expression before asking, “Have you made a decision about the other handlers?” 

“Stations One and Two,” he gestured between the two of them, “with Mariam and Aiden on Three and Four once they’re operative.  I want Ming, Amber, and Justin trained as backups. I think you’re right about Justin’s focus, though. He’s incredibly perceptive, even if his thinking is a bit scattered some days.  With the proper training, I think he’ll be first in line for a fifth station if I can get M’s approval for it.” 

R made notes on the tablet many believed was permanently affixed to her forearm.  “So, the green light for running other ops with OFAS, yeah? Do you want me to rotate the three of them in to observe Aiden at the support station when I run Harrell’s and Galan’s ops later in the week?”  The missions for Five and Eight had been tentatively scheduled with OFAS support contingent upon the success of 003’s task in Vaduz. Based on tonight’s results, they were tentative no longer.

“Yes, please, on both accounts.  I see no reason to postpone their training nor delay mission support with amiable agents.”

“Agent assignments, then?”

“You’re comfortable running Harrell, Galan, and Martin?”

“I’ve known them for years: the trust level is solid.  I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“Good.  We’ll go with that, then.”  Q smiled tightly, “I wish my outlook was as positive.  Granted, Constance and I seem to have sorted out the miscommunications we had during early testing, but --”

R cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Don’t you sell yourself short, lad.  You and Connie work extremely well together.  And the pair of you passed tonight’s test with flying colours.  Three knows it. You know it. Hell, even Herself up on her dais knew it.”

James, who had been listening to the conversation from his perch in spite of his doze, opened his eyes at the sound of shoes scraping against the hard floor and was surprised to see the young man shuffle his feet and duck his head, seeming more embarrassed by R’s forthright praise than he’d been admitting to not noticing M observing the mission.

R apparently wasn’t done embarrassing him yet.

“You get on quite well with Trevelyan, too,” she said, laying a hand on Q’s shoulder.  “I know he seemed initially hesitant in accepting this entire scheme at the beginning of the OFSA briefing, but Alec ended up quite keen to work with you on this and was rather put out when Three ended up with the first go.  Frankly, I think it’s a natural pairing, you and he. Both with your penchant for explosives… you’ll be the death of me, the pair o’ ya!  You’ve a friend for life what with you designing some of his favourite devices over the last few years.  The two of you in a lab together. That’s enough to make me old before me time!”

Q laughed at that, as perhaps she had intended, and James now had a piece of information that he didn’t have before:  the connection between Alec and the Quartermaster as well as the beginnings of an explanation as to why Alec had jumped to the whelp’s defence in the pub.  Something for later consideration. 

“But then there’s 007.”

James had just been about to finally leave his perch and pop off back home when the mention of his designation stayed his leap. 

“Yes.  Bond,” Q sighed.  Though he and R had oft spoken of Q’s concerns for building a strong working relationship with the skilled yet uncompromising and aloof Double-O, he’d not had the chance to share with her just how badly he’d bollocked up everything earlier.  It would be easier if he passed Bond off to one of the others, but -- 

No.  He’d see it through.  There was no ‘easy’ when one was in the employ of the SIS, and Q had to hope that there was a way for him to salvage  _ something _ with Bond.   “I won’t assign 007 to another handler.  I’ll just have to ... “ A vague wave of his hand seemed to indicate his loss for words regarding such a complex and delicate situation.

“M intends to assign a Double-O level op to either Provenzano or Eichner -- to become the new 002 --” Q continued, “but until that all plays out, I’d like the remaining five Double-Os evaluated and matched with the OS Technician best suited to their personalities and  _ modus operandi _ before the end of the quarter.  If all goes smoothly, we’ll start the same process with the senior agents after the first of the year.  I don’t want our people running blindly out there any longer than they have to be.”

The clear concern and frustration in the Quartermaster’s voice was not what James expected to hear nor was the motherly pat R delivered to the shoulder on which her hand rested something he expected to see. The Quartermaster had seemed cold and intractable in that awful pub confrontation, but here in the bullpen with a colleague -- a peer -- well, it was almost like seeing another person entirely.  

Q uncapped the bottle of water R had given him and took several long swallows.  His stomach growled so loudly even James could hear it. At R’s quizzical look, Q muttered something about having only had a handful of chips at the pub hours ago.  

She smirked at him.    

“Umm, yeah … the pub …”  It was time, he supposed, to confess his sins.  “I’ll need you to familiarize yourself with the specs for One’s mission in Porto Alegre.  M indicated earlier she might bump it up, and ...” He dabbed at a drop of water on his lip with the sleeve of his cardi, but did not meet R’s gaze.  “Well, I’m … going to be out for the next week.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

Q’s eyes snapped to his second’s.  “You have?”

R gestured at the room at large.  “Spy agency, Q. News travels fast.  Especially when it involves our most notorious Double-O and the new Quartermaster.” She cocked an eyebrow at him.  “‘Old dogs learning new tricks’?  _ Really _ , Q.”

James’ fur bristled in response to the reminder of what had been said in the pub, and he growled low in his throat but managed to contain a full-blown hiss of anger.  

Q rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.  R had a special talent for making those she was disappointed in -- be they a junior technician or a department head -- feel about ten centimeters tall with a single look, but he shook off his chagrin quickly.  He was the Quartermaster now. Her boss. Their respective roles had changed, and as his second, he would need to rely on R more than ever, but in a new capacity: advisor rather than nurturer.

“I’m not at all proud of what I did, and I’ll say as much to Bond at the earliest opportunity.”  Q straightened his shoulders, standing much taller now as though admitting that aloud had freed him of an unseen burden.  “What else did you hear?” 

“That you put yourself on suspension.”

_ That _ got James’ attention.  His ears swiveled and his whiskers pushed forward, surprised that the pup owned up to his own foolishness and the disrespect he had shown at the pub.  James would have considered being mildly impressed if not for the sheer idiocy of the man putting himself on suspension. Who the fuck does  _ that _ ?

“I was out of line,” Q said firmly.  “It was the right thing to do.”

“M said she had to talk you down from a fortnight without pay to one week with.”

Idiocy that apparently extended to trying to bargain with M and expecting to win, James decided.

“I insisted a formal reprimand be placed in my file.”

“Yes, well, she was fairly certain one would find its way in there whether she filed it or not.  Wonder where she got  _ that _ idea?”  R shrugged her shoulders, all too familiar with Q’s capabilities as was M.  “Though, to hear tell, it sounds like Bond managed to push most of  _ your _ buttons, too.”

“Like he’d installed them himself,” Q admitted with a sigh.

“Well, it  _ is _ one of the things he’s trained to do.”

“So, I’m like every other mark.  Brilliant.” Q slumped against the edge of his station.

“If it’s any consolation, I have it on good authority --”

“Eve Moneypenny’s, no doubt.”

R’s smile was confirmation enough  “-- that you gave as good as you got.  Had him worked up into a froth the likes of which even Alec Trevelyan hasn’t managed.”

“No.  What I did was alienate a man I need to be able to work with closely.”  

“Oh, I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as all that.”

“You know as well as I do that  _ this _ will never work without a solid relationship between the agent and the handler.”  Q pointed at the system behind him. “That relationship  _ has _ to be built on trust.  I think I pretty well destroyed that tonight.  Bond was coming off a mission gone to shite. He’s lucky to be alive, and I let my ego get the better of me.  I pushed when I should have backed off. You’d think I’d know better by now. I’ve only been working with post-mission agents in one capacity or another for seven bloody years!” 

While not precisely startled by the blunt admission from the man, James was rather pleasantly surprised, and he realised that over the course of the conversation between R and Q, he’d somehow stopped thinking of the boffin as a kitling, a youth.  He wasn’t ready to treat him with the full respect and deference he’d give to the Major, but James was ready to admit -- partially and within the confines of his own head -- that Q might be worthy of at least some tolerance and leeway. 

He needed time to think, yet James felt caught between exhaustion creeping up on him and a desire to stay and listen to more of this enlightening and informative conversation.  Exhaustion -- which was probably a contributing factor to how long he had dithered in TSS -- won out, however. James drew himself up from the stacked plastic bins and balanced himself on two good legs and two dodgy ones.  It was awkward, but he’d been in worse shape than this. It was time to go home. 

“Oh, you bollocked things up right well,” R said to Q.  She had continued speaking below whilst James had sorted himself above.  “Sounds like you were hot-headed eejits, the pair of you. At your ages, you should  _ both  _ know better, but James -- ”  She sighed and set her tablet on top of Q’s workstation, unburdening herself for this conversation.  “Q, this is what you need to understand ‘bout James Bond.  He's a Scot. He fights hard.  Fucks harder. He's as stubborn as the bleedin’  _ Bodach an Stoir _ .  A typical Scottish male.  I should know, I was  married to one for 23 years, God rest him.”  

She absently spun the ring on her left hand between her thumb and little finger.  “One thing Bond is  _ not _ , however, is a fool.  He’s one of the most perceptive and intuitive people in the SIS.  One of the most loyal, too. Prove  _ yourself _ .  Prove your  _ system _ .  Do that, and you’ll have no one more solidly at your side than James Bond.”

Q was a bit stunned by the starkly frank nature of R’s words.  While she had always been straight-forward and direct with him over the years -- he always knew  _ precisely _ where he stood with R -- he’d never heard the diminutive woman use such vulgar terms.  It certainly helped her make her point in this case, however. 

“Any suggestions on how I might go about doing that?” he asked, tentatively hopeful about the situation for the first time since his ire had drained out of him on Vauxhall Bridge.

R scoffed.  “Oh, luv, I’ve no bloody idea, but it’s certainly going to be entertaining watching you figure it all out.  It  _ could _ actually have been worse, you know: he could be ginger and you could have called him English. The man’s a right bastard at times to be sure, but  _ that _ would --”

A sudden yowl rent the relative quiet of the bullpen just as a rumbling tumble of bins came crashing down from the shelving unit in the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love. Truly. And we could each use some love right now. Ugh, what a summer! :)


End file.
